A couple of hours ago, Greg and I put a feverish, chilled, and shivering little guy to bed.
He curled up into a ball, but requested that Greg read "the Christmas train book" (The Polar Express).
Now all three of us were cuddled into his twin bed. Will curled up into a ball between us, and Greg began reading.
By page three, I noticed Will had fallen asleep.
Greg and I looked at each other.
"But I want to remember how it ends," Greg said.
I had no argument. I like it that much, too.
So while Will slept peacefully, Greg and I relived a little bit of our own childhood.
It took three consecutive years of pleading letters to Santa, "Please, Santa, I'll be extra good if I can just have a bell from your sleigh. It doesn't even need to be one the reindeer wear. Just a rusty old bell you don't use anymore." The Polar Express made me believe with all my might that I would forever hear that bell ring.
My wish was finally granted. The bell is tucked safely...on the back of the tree, so that Will can't take it down, throw it, roll it, play toss with the dogs, and eventually let it end up in a toy box somewhere, lost until June.
I don't recall my Santa belief ending traumatically. There was disappointment, for sure, but no tears or shrieks of agony.
A lady I work with told me that her parents always said Santa represented generosity and goodness. And love. And Santa was present in everyone. The letdown for her didn't exist, because she always believed in that goodness.
It is my hope that I am successful in convincing my own children this is true. Even if the belief begins with a suit, a beard, and a ringing bell.
I'm thinking The Polar Express is going to be in our book rotation for quite some time.
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